


the road to hell

by jongins



Category: iKON (Kpop)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Blood, M/M, Minor Character Death, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Violence, the ikon mafia au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6673153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jongins/pseuds/jongins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby and Hanbin are very good at a lot of things, but none of those things are very good. </p>
<p>(Or alternatively, Bobby likes fucking with people. Hanbin's his overqualified babysitter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the road to hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [changdictator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/changdictator/gifts).



> originally posted [here](http://exchangekon.livejournal.com/3176.html) for exchangekon 2016
> 
> Translation into Русский available: [the road to hell](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5040496) by [litthehellup](/users/litthehellup/pseuds/litthehellup)

Seoul reeks. 

It’s a goddamn miracle he hasn’t passed out already, considering the body count and the clouds of cigarette smoke in the room. The sun is shining outside; it’s a nice day to close an agonizing month-long deal with one of the most dangerous drug dealers in Seoul- well, someone who _used_ to be one of the most dangerous drug dealers in Seoul. Bobby gives the lifeless body a little kick, sauntering out the door, before he remembers- 

“Ah, fucking shit, these are my Berluti’s. Alligator skin too,” he says. But it’s not so much the soiled thousand-dollar shoes that piss Bobby off but rather the fact that he had needed to open fire at all. Jang’s haul was not worth all the bloodshed that occurred today. There’s a figure at the door, attentive posture against bored eyes, waiting for him to say something. 

“We need to get more guns. I want one for each of us- no, two actually. This needs to not happen again.” Hanbin just nods. “Also, goddamnit, my shoes,” Bobby says as he leans against the wall to take a deep breath, eyes closed. 

When he opens his eyes, Hanbin’s kneeling at his feet with a handkerchief, ready to wipe off the bloody streaks. His ears are the faintest tint of pink. If they were in the cold winter air, it could be passed off as a natural reaction to the chill, but right now they’re inside the penthouse of some rich fuck’s apartment building, and Bobby notes a light sheen of sweat along Hanbin's forehead with interest. _Maybe_ , Bobby thinks, like he’s testing out a theory, and he pushes Hanbin’s hand aside with a shoe, and then slides that same blood-streaked shoe under his chin. 

“Bobby-"

“What am I gonna do about these, Hanbin?” Bobby asks. Sure, Bobby could buy another pair at any time of the day with no trouble. He probably has more offshore bank accounts than the president does. He just likes watching Hanbin squirm. Hanbin carefully pushes away his foot, facial expression undisturbed, and continues to wipe the blood off his shoes. 

“Boring,” Bobby mutters under his breath. “The red looks nice on you, though.” And that’s all he says as he leaves, thousand dollar shoes clacking across stark quartz tiles. 

 

 

 

The Goldmoon Hotel is a billion dollar monster, the design garish and hopelessly decadent. It doesn’t fit in with Seoul’s modern and postmodern high rises, and yet based on value alone, it probably fits the best of all. He stood at the entrance, pulling at the lapels of his best suit, before pushing open the glass doors.

Bobby had been doing pretty well for being fresh into the crime scene, and evidently at least one other person thought so too, as he walked up the stairs to see someone whose subordinate had handed him a card during one of his last errands in Mapo-gu. He had never seen the boss in person, only communicating through phone calls and low level lackeys, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit nervous. More than that though, Bobby was incredibly curious. The potential, _your potential_ , the man with the card had said, looking at Bobby and clearly seeing so much more than an ill-fitting suit and the bloody wrench. 

The boss turned out to be Secretary Kim of Seoul, and while Bobby had been surprised, a part of him knew that there was no way he could have gotten away with half the things he had done if there were no one high up in the government who was, at the very least, on the payroll of the organization. 

A nod from the Secretary, and another young man came into the room, dressed to the nines. 

“Hanbin is going to be giving you the assignments and the run down of everything from now on,” was all the explanation Bobby received before the Secretary was called away, no doubt maintaining some aspect of the sprawling underground. “Introduce yourselves and Hanbin, get him started if you want,” the Secretary called from down the hall. 

Coiffed hair, dark brown eyes, face set in stone— Hanbin’s face reminded Bobby of one of those Easter Island statues. Bobby nodded, by way of greeting, and Hanbin just looked him up and down with a disinterested eye before he pulled out his phone and started organizing documents. 

Judging by the lack of general emotion in the past two minutes of their acquaintance, Bobby had bet that Hanbin’s heart was equally stoney, intense gaze focusing on Hanbin’s face without realizing it. 

“Well, if—”

“I don’t fuck guys.” 

Bobby’s _Well, if you don’t have anything to say I’d like to leave now_ was left unfinished. The words were definitive, and Bobby stopped short, momentarily speechless. He hadn’t thought, he wasn’t thinking of that, but he reevaluated Hanbin’s face, which was devoid of any emotion but full of some kind of energy, and promptly decided on something. “ _Yet_ ,” Bobby replied intently and grinned by way of valediction. There was no change in Hanbin’s facial expression but Bobby had taken the pinking of his ears as a small victory. As Bobby exited the room, he gave a noncommittal wave.

“Looking forward to working with you,” Bobby called, and surprisingly, he found that he meant it. 

 

 

 

A year ago, no one in Seoul knew who Kim Bobby was. A year later, everyone does. It’s hard not to, when half the Seoul underground quakes at the mention of his name. Not that many can put a face to that name, but a face is hardly necessary when the weight of his name hangs more like an omniscient, intangible presence. 

In the swanky restaurants, not quite Gangnam, word flies around. The words themselves are never reliable but always reliably fast. 

“I heard he made a man cut his own finger off when the poor bastard hit on his… his…,” and the girl pauses conspiratorially, not quite sure what word to use, before settling on “Kim Hanbin. Kim Hanbin and Kim Bobby. I don’t know what relationship they have with each other but...” Bobby’s surprised that they know him, considering that he himself had only met Hanbin a month ago.

“It was a hand, and Hanbin’s my knight.” Bobby flashes a disarming grin. He remembers that incident. The bastard did more than just hit on Hanbin though, he was the reason twenty shipments of coke suddenly went missing. But that’s not relevant right now, and Bobby focuses more on how the blood drains from her face when she realizes that not only has he been sitting in the booth behind her for the past ten minutes, he’s got her ID in his hands. The look on her face confirms her as Choi’s daughter. 

“S-sorry?”

“The gentleman got his hand cut off, and Hanbin over here is my knight in shining armor,” Bobby says, knowing full well that she had heard him the first time. Hanbin squints almost imperceptibly, and Bobby resists the urge to laugh. They both know who does the fighting between the two of them, and it’s not Hanbin, but Bobby’s words have never failed to provoke a reaction out of people. It’s fun, finally getting Hanbin to join him this time. When Hanbin had first asked to come today he hadn’t been so sure about it, but now Bobby definitely thinks it’s worth it.

“I’m looking for Choi, does anyone know where he might be?” The room is silent. Bobby sighs, and then fishes out a gun. The girl in front of him is slightly trembling, and the crowd trickles off the premises. The good thing about being active around the area is that everyone knows when to get lost. 

“Relax, this isn’t for you,” Bobby says, but his tone is like that of sugar-coated barbed wire, or something equally confusing and dangerous. He saunters to the front of the bar, looking straight at the man cowering behind the impassive bartender. “He’s one of ours,” Hanbin motions towards the bartender, and Bobby nods approvingly. Hanbin’s thorough. He’s always assured at least that much. A shot glass drops and shatters on the floor, sound reverberating through the bar, and the bartender steps aside to reveal the man, pale-faced and clutching the wall behind him. 

He’s dealing again with Choi, a pub owner who doesn’t seem to understand that payment on the 11th doesn’t mean payment on the 12th or 13th, it means payment on the 11th. The wrench he takes to his knuckles hopefully gets the message across. “Sorry,” Bobby frowns at Hanbin in the car, but he doesn’t sound that sorry. “Usually they just hand it over.” Bobby’s met with a frown in return. Hanbin’s eyebrows are furrowed and he pauses a bit before speaking.

“There’s only so many times you can break someone’s fingers before they decide to pay someone else to protect them from _you._ ” Bobby lifts an eyebrow. That much is true, but “What, are you proposing that we ask them nicely?”

There’s a glint in Hanbin’s eyes as he says, “No, I’m just saying that we could have reported the dead mouse back behind the kitchen.” 

There wasn’t a dead mouse behind the kitchen. In fact, it was disgustingly clean, one of the most sparkling kitchens he’s ever seen. Bobby’s slightly confused before he thinks about it harder, and then sees it with clarity. Bringing Hanbin along was extremely useful. “Fuck, right the mouse.” Biting his lip, he smiles and makes a call.

“Hayi? Tell me who in the health department supervises health hazards in restaurants in Yongsan, around Itaewon.”

 

 

 

As he adds a few more people into their circles, Bobby finds that not everything has to be resolved with violence. It’s pretty easy to, yes, but the clean up is just fucking _tedious_. Which is why he’s waiting for a certain contact to show up. Director Shin Gura, head of recreation, runs into his office at 10:37 PM, his breaths laboured and hair a mess. The ugly analog clock now reads 10:38 PM from the desk in the far back. 

“You’re late.” Bobby had been planning on scaring the man, but aside from a little jump, Shin looks tired and annoyed.

Shin heaves as he grabs a glass of whisky and sits down on a chair opposite of Bobby. “What, I’m a busy man. You don’t know how many middle schools want to run their Sports Day on the same day in the same locations.” 

“We made this appointment a week ago,” Bobby sighs and continues picking at his nails with a switchblade. 

Shin snaps. “Look, my people found a fucking _body_ in the river last week. That’s why you’re here. I can’t have this going on anymore.” Bobby grimaces. That hadn’t been a pleasant errand at all. The guy had already lost function of both his legs; it was supposed to be a simple matter of delivering the killing shot and dragging him back from the banks, but that was before he’d used his arm to hurl himself down the river. Firing a few shots to the back of his head was all Bobby could do to ensure the man wouldn’t live to tell any story. 

Bobby ignores the complaint. “We’re planning on carrying out activities in the park tomorrow and the day after. Have your men on standby.” It had been easy enough to secure positions for Bobby’s men on the payroll. The clean ups were easy and quick and Bobby wants to keep it that way. A few well chosen words can get Shin’s blood boiling, but it’s not like Shin can do anything about it. 

There’s a twisted gleam in Bobby’s eyes as he says, “No one needs to know right? That the massage parlour you visit very regularly.”

“What are you talking about? What massage parlor?” The feigned innocence makes Bobby want to laugh and puke at the same time. Shin’s knuckles turn white from his grip on the arms of the leather chair.

“You’re considering running for reelection, aren’t you? It would be a shame if someone were to find out about your transactions there, somehow.”

Shin sputters in indignation.

“There’s a certain lady who’s more than willing to comply and I have a reporter on stand-by, waiting to publish this story at a moment’s notice. So tomorrow night. Are we clear?”

Shin’s angry but defeated sigh is all the answer Bobby needs. 

 

 

 

It takes maybe three more weeks to finish taking half of Seoul. In the meantime, when Bobby’s not busy ordering people to supervise drug deals and rigged sports games, he takes Hanbin to the shooting range. 

It’s an isolated training facility for the Seoul PD, manned by a young cop, Jinhyeong, paid enough to send a Bobby’s men a list of the guard rotations, so they know when to come. 

“How are you doing today, sir? And the guest?” he smiles, and Bobby avoids the question with his own genial smile. Jinhyeong’s only fault would be that he pries a bit too much for his own good. Bobby’s pretty sure he’s going to end up having to put a bullet through his head one day— he’d just prefer it be later rather than sooner. The kid’s kind of cute, in a clueless way. 

“How’s your family, Jinhyeong?”

A shadow flits across Jinhyeong's face. Wrong question to ask. “Not so well. My eomma’s got some kind of disease that’s not going away and the hospital bills are draining our family.” 

For a moment, Bobby’s almost sorry for the kid, but he ignores the urge to say something he doesn’t mean, instead grabbing two pairs of headsets and shooting glasses. “We’re going outside,” Bobby says, and _manage the radio feed_ is left unspoken, but Jinhyeong’s smart. He may be discontent with a post out in a shooting range in the middle of nowhere, but he hasn’t got much to lose being so lowly ranked anyway, and the pay that Bobby gives him is nothing if not generous. 

Bobby reaches into his waistband, pulls out a shiny new Colt 1191 .455 auto, nickel-plated and everything. He checks the magazine and hands it to Hanbin. 

“I’m not— I don’t—” Hanbin had said when Bobby had taken the wheel in the morning and stated his destination. At the end of the day, Bobby doesn’t even know why Hanbin protested. Hanbin’s grip on the gun is unexpectedly firm, and it’s not until he realizes Bobby’s narrowed gaze is on him that he loosens his grip on the gun and looks more like someone who’s never handled a firearm more than maybe five times a year. 

Regardless, he hits the target at least sixty percent of the time, which is more than Bobby can say for his own first few tries a couple of years ago. However, there’s a slight tremor in Hanbin’s hands, and his stance is unnatural, like he’s trying too hard yet not hard enough at the same time. 

Slowly, Bobby guides Hanbin’s hands into textbook-perfect position, with one hand supporting the butt of the pistol grip and another prying his finger further away from the trigger. They’re close enough now that Bobby can smell the kind of shampoo Hanbin uses and see the beads of sweat that form at the edge of his hairline. ”You just need to focus,” and Bobby enjoys the rush of Hanbin’s pulse fluttering in the midst of his invasive proximity. Bobby presses down on the trigger. The shot rings through the air and a flock of birds burst from the far end of the shooting range, circling the sky in chaos. Hanbin’s chest is thumping and Bobby can tell he wants to bolt, not because he’s afraid of the shooting, but because of him. Bobby just cages him in further. 

“Stop running. It becomes a habit.”

“I’m not running. It’s just been a long time since I’ve fired a gun,” Hanbin says, even though he attempts to dislodge himself from Bobby’s arms wrapped around him. Bobby waits until Hanbin calms down before trying to get him to shoot again. Hanbin doesn’t hit the target, not even once, for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

“That’s funny. You were a lot more confident earlier.” 

“I-I don’t—”

The manager _was_ a lot tougher earlier, when Bobby had come in with some questions. Most people don’t know what Bobby looks like, even if they know who he is. He likes the power of his reputation, but being flashy about it isn’t an advantage and Bobby hates not having the upper hand. The easygoing eyes and the carefree smile all give off the impression that Bobby’s some low-level lackey, tagging along as expendable backup. If Bobby had a drink for every time Hanbin’s gotten an accidental “Mr. Kim Bobby?” he’d probably be clutching his liver in the ER. Although, there _are_ worse ways to get in there. He would know.

The manager isn’t so tough right now, with a gun aimed at his head and a foot in his face.

“Your answers aren’t coming fast enough.” Bobby’s patience is a flexible thing; he can wait four months before making deciding whether to take over a neighborhood, but even four seconds is too long for the shaking manager to answer his questions. He’s bored, which is never a good thing. His eyes roam over the room, attention scattered. It’s almost worse than usual, because his anger at wasting time he could potentially use to take care of other things manifests into a kind of impersonal ruthlessness. 

“I believe Mr. Kim asked you a question.” Hanbin doesn’t even need to sound particularly threatening. Between his own semi-automatic and Bobby’s Sig Sauer, the guns do enough of the talking for them.

“He- he said something about going somewhere west, somewhere warmer,” the man finally accommodates, which makes everyone’s jobs easier. It just sucks that Jung’s men are going to come in later and torture the same man about Hongseok’s whereabouts again. 

“Cut him off before he gets to the airport.” Bobby makes a move to head out, turning towards the entrance.

“Bobby?” Hanbin asks, before looking down at the squirming man on the floor.

Bobby levels him a look and shrugs. _Take care of it._

One of his men steps back and pulls the trigger. The manager screams as the bullet tears through his leg.

 

 

 

“Your boss said to get the information, not scare and kill half the population that takes bribes from us.” 

“Is there a difference? Also, that motherfucker took bribes from us and he still wouldn’t give Hongseok up?” Bobby props a leg up on the recliner. 

“We know where he’s headed now,” Hanbin says. The problem wasn’t that Hongseok was the leak, the problem was it had taken them this long to figure it out and then locate him. 

“Yeah, well someone get on it.” One of his men disappears from the room, and Hanbin’s called away by someone, the secretary probably, before Bobby can say anything about the splats of blood on his ankle. 

Bobby wonders what makes him tick. This whole business really, is finding out what makes people tick. It’s not hard most of the time, a gun, a knife, or a glare just as sharp is enough to get people falling all over themselves in an effort to save their own lives or save the lives of the people they care about. Feelings are a liability in the underground, he admits, but not if you live to see the power of using them. It’s hard to play this game with people like Hanbin, who show about two emotions a year, but Bobby has always liked a challenge. 

 

 

 

It takes a few moments before he notices the small slip of paper on the windshield of Hanbin’s Benz and the back of an officer heading towards another car.

This guy is _short._ Bobby’s usually the one who says these things, but this time it’s Hanbin who lets it slip. The police officer looks unamused as he turns towards the two men in suits looking over the parking ticket he had just issued not two minutes ago. 

“Gentlemen? There’s no parking allowed here.”

“Isn’t there?” Bobby lifts a brow.

“No, sir,” the officer says, with a hint of impatience. It’s funny really, because _sir_ is what Bobby should be using to address _Officer_ —Bobby squints— _Jinhwan_. Jinhwan comes up to about Bobby’s nose, which makes it difficult for Bobby to take him seriously, not that Bobby would’ve taken him seriously anyway, what with enough police already on their side to fully operate in Seoul. He briefly wonders how much force he’d have to use to knock the shit out of Jinhwan (it isn’t much), but the officer doesn’t seem to notice. 

“You can contest it if you’d like,” Jinhwan says, hand reflexively on his holster, “but it won’t get you anywhere. I mean, it’s a parking ticket.” The last statement is punctuated with a little laugh, but he stops when it seems like neither of the men find the situation amusing. “So it is.” Bobby sizes up the officer again, taking in the soft pale skin and narrow shoulders. Cute. Boring. Picking up the ticket between his index and middle fingers, Bobby only looks at it for a moment before tearing the thing to shreds, wind scattering pieces everywhere. Jinhwan’s eyebrows furrow and he opens his mouth, ready to say something.

“Nice meeting you, Officer Jinhwan. Have a wonderful day.” Bobby ducks into the car, the corners of his mouth rising, and Hanbin speeds off before Jinhwan can even utter a single word. 

Hanbin’s finger is tapping on the steering wheel, eyes on the road but mind everywhere else. “You could’ve just paid it off, you know.” 

Bobby does know. But Bobby also doesn’t care. “He looked fun to mess with. You saw him, he’s probably on his second week of active duty. Parking duty.” 

 

 

 

“Do you know what you said when you first came to me?” Bobby sits down in the chair across Hongseok, playing with the USB with the leaked information. “You said you wanted to live like a person.”

Bound and gagged, Hongseok glares at him with defiant eyes, and Bobby leans in, amused. “What, you don’t think I’ve helped you do that?” He gives a cursory glance around the room in all its opulence, none of which would be Hongseok’s if not for him. Bobby rips out the gag. 

Hongseok heaves a laugh, though it sounds more like a tortured cough. “That- this, all this doesn’t mean I’m living like a person.” If this man thinks Bobby is going to sit and play moral jeopardy with him, he has another thing coming. 

Very rarely does Bobby give people second chances, and when he does, he usually ends up regretting it. Hongseok isn’t an exception. 

“Well you certainly aren’t above living like a rat,” and if the last part sounds testy, it’s because Hongseok had cost them approximately two million won and five days of blind searching throughout Seoul. “Don’t chew on your lips. It becomes a habit.” Hongseok looks up at him incredulously. “What? It is. We don’t want your lips to be bleeding and raw when we bury you, of course not.” 

Disposing of Hongseok is a quick job. It’s also one less loose end to worry about. 

 

 

 

Hongseok’s words are still on his mind a few days later. They’re so close, Bobby can feel it. One more district and then Seoul is theirs. Well, not exactly theirs, but Secretary Kim will be pleased to know that his illegal jurisdiction now spreads almost as vast as the mayor’s legal property development. It’s 2:00 AM though, and he can’t stop thinking about it. _Live like a person._ Bobby’s not one for some kind of internal ethics debate, he’d left that kind of luxury behind the moment he walked into the hotel that day, but he wonders, if _he_ owned Seoul, would he feel like he was living like a person? The glittering skyline taunts him, and he places the glass of wine on top of the counter.

Hanbin wakes up, opening the door to his own room. Bobby hears the creak of the door and Hanbin joins him to look at the city below them.

“I’m still learning,” Hanbin says quietly, finally.

“Learning what?” He doesn’t suppose Hanbin means how to cock a firearm or take care of a shady deal, or the fucked up type of economics that's taught in school but isn’t applicable here. The drawn out silence leaves Bobby so on edge he almost misses it. 

“You.” Bobby turns away from the windows to look at Hanbin. Light pollution casts a shadow across their faces, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a fluttering of his pulse, the kind that he usually only feels when shit goes down and the body count begins to rise. “Learning you,” Hanbin says again, as if Bobby could’ve missed it. 

He leans in, his face impossibly close, his body even closer. Bobby can feel Hanbin’s heartbeat like he can hear his own pulse rushing in his ear. There’s a ghost of a touch on his lips before-

“You’re not that hot.”

This, he expects. From day one, Hanbin’s words have always either been indirect orders or insults. Bobby laughs, “You know, that’s a fault of perspective,” before starting to pull away.

What he doesn’t expect is the arm pulling him back, the press of lips against his own— Bobby only starts for a moment before he sinks into it. _Fuck everything,_ and his hands curl around the back of Hanbin’s neck, enjoying the way he flinches when Bobby bites his lip. Hanbin breathes his way back to life when he breaks them apart. 

“I thought you didn’t fuck guys,” Bobby smiles, tone lilting in a tease.

Hanbin flushes a pink that Bobby didn’t even think his skin tone was capable of turning. It’s startlingly beautiful in the glow of the Seoul skyline. “I don’t. I haven’t.” and then a softer, “Just you.” Bobby thinks it’s funny how they can extort money out of just about anyone in the city, whether it be through words or guns, yet when it comes to just the two of them, words fail to do anything at all. 

Bobby thinks about how he and Hanbin are very good at many things, but how none of those things are very good.

Well, that too, is a fault of perspective.


End file.
